From The Shadows
by ZanzibarTheGreat
Summary: She's the unfortunate tribute from District 7, he's the Career tribute from District 2. The odds are hardly in their favour.
1. Chapter 1: Shadow

_Hi, Zanzibar here. This is my first (Fanfiction) fanfic, and my first Hunger Games fanfic as well. Please don't be too harsh, because I'm obviously not the shimmering expert at the Hunger Games, but a big fan. Enough that I wanted to write this. I promise it'll (eventually) start to pick up as things move along. Feel free to drop a comment, it'd be much apprecited..._

Chapter One: Shadow  
_And here we go..._

* * *

"Wake up."

Shaken from my deep-slumber state, my eyes blink open and glance into the darkness around me. Even in a room with no window, I can easily make out the shapes of the objects around me, concealed otherwise in the darkness. Despite the absence of light, I can make out the form of my little brother standing on the side of my bed. His twelve-year-old body is trembling like a child cast out into the ruthless District 7 winter, but it's early summer.

Propping myself up with my elbows, I grab one of his clammy hands with my own, pinching it for reassurance.

"Why are you awake, Hans?" I murmur groggily, reaching up to ruffle his flaxen hair. He pulls away, obviously not accepting my gestures of reassurance.

I already know his answer. It would've been the same answer I had the night prior to my first Reaping. Back then, I had cried for hours. Fear consumed every fiber within my twelve-year-old body then, and the only consolation I had found was vanishing that night in the darkness of the District 7 forest. I had more or less ran off the night before my first Reaping, only to return that morning, slightly refreshed and freed from my anxieties, despite the unchanging fate I would face if my name was chosen in a few hours.

"I don't want to go, Indigo," Hans said with an imploring tone.

Reaching over, I cupped Hans tear-stained cheeks with my hands. I press a soft, motherly kiss onto his cheek and smile. He probably couldn't see the smile. My room is so dark, and Hans isn't as adapted to darkness as I am. But it was the consideration that counts.

"Don't worry, Hansel," I whispered with defiance, "There's so many kids with their names in that bowl...and your's is only in there once. You'll be okay."

My mind considers the longshot chance of Hans being chosen. Although it was small, it still existed. But ignoring it for now could save Hans a good night's worth of sleep.

He doesn't reply, and I'm not going to let him consider the impending doom that tomorrow brings. I kiss him again before sending him back to his bed. I lay in bed, motionless, waiting for silence to creep back into the household before rising from bed.

Slipping my feet into my moccasins, I began for the door. In a matter of moments, I slip from the heat box my family's rundown house was and into the clear, cool air outside. My flesh prickles with goosebumps as I slip stealthily into the shadows of the trees. My navigation skills are unrivaled. I could see the fallen branch in the shadows of the towering maple trees, where normal people would stumble over them.

I was made for darkness, my father says.

He called me his little "Shadow."

Partially this was because I was inseparable from him in my younger years. Numerous times, I had left the house and followed him to work in the forest. Although he had not approved of this, I would show up at his work camp and hide away from him. When I got older, I became bolder. I would let my father be aware of my presence. The first few times he disapproved, saying the lumber camps was no place for a girl. But, eventually he caved to my resilience. As long as I in a safe area, I was allowed.

But there was another reason for my name. I was silent and stealthy, and my abilities in the dark were uncanny.

"You'd think you were a little bat," he would tease. "Seeing in the dark and such."

So I was Shadow. Silent and deadly.

My face bears a smile when my mind wanders across these thoughts. As I creep across the forest floor, quieter than the breeze that tugs at the trees. Hunkering lower, I am one of the shadows. I am nothing more than an apparition, slinking in and out between the pale-face moonlight and shadows.

Finally, I'm breaking out of the shadows and into a shower of silvery moonbeams. I stand at the edge of a cliff, gazing across the sweeping water below me. It's still and sleeps under the guardian watch of the moon above. A breathtaking sight, I still find my lungs lacking oxygen as I catch sight of it. Every night I had come out here for years, and every night it yielded the same effect on me.

Gazing across the moonlit water, I take a deep breath. Bathed in the twilight beauty, I'm at a loss of the things around me. Right now, I'm engulfed in the night. What worries me from before begins to dissipate.

My knees fold, and I'm sitting in slightly damp grass. For a while, I'm motionless. A little silhouette, crouched at the foot of the cliff, gazing out over serene waters. My mind begins to shake the numbness of thoughtlessness, and I'm drawn into thought. I'm drawn into the worries that plagued me from before.

Truth was, I was anxious to the bone. But four years of dealing with the constant dread of being chosen had hardened me. Mom death had absorbed me of emotion, too. I was devoid of all ability to convey my emotions. I was nothing more than a lost cause due to the hell that the Capitol subjected us to. I was one of many lost causes.

And so, the Capitol would go about their vicious game. They didn't care who we were, what mattered was the game. We were their dogs, cast into the pit for their entertainment. We were nothing more. And tomorrow, two kids would be selected, and they'd be thrown into this heartless game for their enjoyment.

Tomorrow, two kids would find a true reason to be anxious.

What if it was me?

What if it was me...

* * *

"If you don't sit still, I can't do much justice for you hair," I growl at Hans hours later. He's sitting on a stool at home, fidgeting like a worm. I'm biting my lower lip, trying to style his wily hair that's a bit overgrown and abused by his play in the forest.

Hans squeals softly when I jerk a bit of his hair.

I breathe. "I'm sorry..."

"Are you done _yet_?" Hans whines.

"Close," I promise.

"Why can't dad do my hair?" He continues to whine. I'm at wits' end with him by now, having lugged him around all morning trying to get him to look half decent. And what for? I secretly think, it's not like his name is in the Reaping bowl twelve times. I am. I have a higher chance of being selected than he. That's the price you pay for tessera.

As if on cue, there are footsteps rousing from the back of the house. I pause, looking up to see the silhouette of my father at the doorframe of his room.

"Dad..." I breathe. It's the only greeting I offer him.

He looks at me, blinking. I can tell his hungover. Just like every other morning. You'd think he'd have the decency to sober up last night so that he didn't look so disheveled and dead today. Maybe he'd clean himself up by this afternoon. But I wasn't going to hold him to that high of a standard. He's hardly been sober since mom died.

Hans lightens up, though, when he sees our father. Dad smiles softly for Hans's sake and walks over, ruffling his hair and ruining my handy work. I growl, giving up. Hans would've messed it up before we got to the town square anyway.

"Go get dressed, Hans," I murmur, pushing him off the stool.

Once Hans scampers into his room, I turn to face my father. My lips are taut and jawbone clenched with a wave of emotions. I admit the day was putting me on edge, and my father's lack of assistance was driving under my skin.

"You look like hell," I state with a tart tone.

"Feel like it too," dad's gravelly voice responds. He takes a the water pitcher and fills a glass of water, guzzling it down to tame his parched throat. I think of how many times dad has drunk himself into alcohol poisoning the last few years, and how many times I had to nurse him from the state.

The man could hardly contribute to this family.

I sigh, gritting my teeth. The words feel hot on my tongue, and suddenly I spew, "What do you do if I get chosen?"

Dad looks up at me as if I'm insane.

"Look at the odds, dad," I implore him, resting my hands on our makeshift dining table. They're shaking, and I'm trying to conceal how distraught I am. "If I'm chosen, what do you do? What will you do with Hans?"

"Indigo, there's hardly-"

"It still exists! And we can't go about ignoring the facts! If I'm chosen, you two are royally fucked unless you decide to pull yourself together," I snarl. Suddenly, I feel a burning sensation in my eyes that I fight back. I hadn't cried in years. Even when mom died, I didn't cry in front of my father. In my forest, I had. But not to him.

Indigo was a warrior. The Little Shadow Warrior her father had raised. She didn't cry. Not then. Not now.

Dad stares sympathetically at me, frowning. "Indi..."

"I'm getting dressed..."

* * *

Town Square was a homely part of our district. It was a well-manicured piece of property, with a stout oak tree in the center of it. Off to one side, a stage was erected for one sole purpose and that purpose alone had caused us to congregate here in solemnness.

I left my father and Hans, going to my section with same-aged children of District 7. The event is terse, and hardly anyone will exchange a word beforehand. And even afterwards, we tend to keep silent in a form of sympathetic vigil for the two unfortunate souls chosen. We stand in formal rows, watching the stage with gazes of dread. Who is it today? Whose brother? Whose sister? Whose child? Whose friend? If only we knew the answers now.

One of the Capitol's fluffed-up escorts struts onto the stage. Her name is Pipa, and she had been our district's escort since I could remember. Every year she was always a different color. Last year she dedicated her cause to neon green, this year she had chosen a light red. She looked ridiculous, but, then again, it was a social norm in the Capitol.

My mind blanks out for a while as the history of Panem is told. I keep sending prayers that Hans will avoid being chosen this year. I even offered myself up instead to the gods, whoever or wherever they were. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if Hans died in the games. I couldn't even volunteer for him, being a different gender.

Digging my fingernails into my palms, I realized I had worked up a sweat. Every fiber within my body was on edge as Pipa finally addressed us.

"And now what we've all came here for," she squeaks. How sick of her to sound so thrilled. She was sentencing two kids to their deaths.

Drawing her frail white hand up, she almost made a show of her lofty movements.

"This year's female Tribute," Pipa announces as she lowers her hand into the bowl to her side. She swishes the tiny pieces of white paper. Twelve of them are mine being tossed around. Twelve tiny slips of paper that could decide my fate.

Finally, Pipa stops and from the bowl, her hand emerges with a piece of paper between two crimson-tipped fingers. She unfolds it, reading the name and cracking a soft smile.

"Indigo Ryxse."

For a second, I'm expecting to hear someone sobbing. We would all turn and gaze at the newly-chosen tribute, feeling immense amounts of sympathy and sadness. But then my mind suddenly clicked. Everyone had, in fact, turned to the newly-chosen tribute. They had all turned to look at me.

My jaw dropped, and my blood ran cold. I wanted to believe that my ears had deceived me, that this wasn't true.

But it was true, wasn't it?

And now I'm trembling. Someone nearby nudges me forward, beckoning me to begin my journey to the stage. I flash a wary glance at everyone around me, as though I expected them to tell me it was a sick joke and start laughing, and that I wasn't going to the Capitol to die. But all I received was cold, stony gazes, mirroring my emotions.

There was sympathy in those gazes. Or maybe disbelief. Or both, I wasn't sure. By then, someone had actually shoved me along and a Peacekeeper grabbed my arm, jerking me forward.

On the inside, everything was going numb. My body made mechanical, forced movements to reach the pinnacle of the stage beside Pipa. In front of everyone, my insides shrank and I gazed at hundreds of bewildered people. Would someone volunteer now, and take my place in the hell about to come? Silence lingered. I discovered that my fate was no longer in my hands. In a few weeks, I'd be coming home in a body bag.

My stomach sinks, and I fight the urge to vomit, or collapse, or maybe start crying. It was the only strength I could muster right now, to protect my pride and my name. Otherwise, I stood motionless and painstakingly pale on the stage, looking like a washed up rat.

Then there is the next kid. Pipa calls his name.

"Anthony Lavine."

My eyes find Anthony in an instant. A kid the same age as I walked shakily to the stage, his shoulders set back but his face deceiving him. He flashes a wild look at me, and all I can offer is a soft nod. A nod of confirmation, rather than assurance, because we both know this is the last time our district will see us alive and in the flesh.

Moments fly and my mind goes numb. They're congratulating us, but no one claps or cheers. Rather, the rest of our district stares on in agony. There goes two wasted lives, they're thinking. There goes Indigo and Anthony.

* * *

The room in the Hall is quiet and stuffy. I shift uncomfortably in the chair provided for me as I await my visitors. For a long time, I figured my father had decided I wasn't worth the hassle. He probably went back to his bottle, and left Hans somewhere to take care of himself. The notion didn't seem too appalling or shocking, it was just the type of standard I held my father to.

But they eventually showed up. I showered Hans with kisses, trying to tame the little tears coming down his face. There were hollow promises of my return, and then careful instructions on how to take care of himself.

Dad gave me the firmest hug. For the first time, I felt that he cared.

"Take care of Hans," I told him. The Peacemakers knocked on the door, warning us that we had only a few precious moments together.

Dad pulled away, looking me intensely in the eyes. "You'll come home. Tell me you'll come home."

It wasn't a promise I could actually commit, and he knew that.

"Just take care of him, dad," I sob, hugging him tightly as the Peacemaker pulls our embrace apart and yanks him towards the door.

"Fight, my little Shadow...fight hard..."

* * *

**Author's Note:** For all you curious, Indigo's last name is pronouced like Rick-sees. Thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2: Mentor

_Hi guys. I hope I'm not failing too badly at this...anyhow, here's another chapter. I promise, things will get interesting eventually. Bear with me, there's a lot of foundation to lay down beforehand..._

Chapter Two: Mentor  
_And now it's time to build from the bottom of the pit right to the top..._

* * *

"You're growing," Dad observed one day when I was ten.

The squeaky ten-year-old Indigo bristled with pride at this compliment. Drawing a deep breath, she attempted to stand taller, even pushing forward onto her toes a bit before losing balance and falling back onto her heels. Dad smiles and ruffles Indigo's hair, gazing fatherly at her.

"Look at those muscles, too," Dad continues, giving her biceps a squeeze. "You look like a little titan."

Indigo gives a toothy grin. "I could be a warrior, daddy!"

There's a flash of panic across Dad's face at that statement. Although she was educated in the cruel realities of the Hunger Games, the young Indigo didn't quite grasp the concept of the game quite yet. The dismay of being plucked from home, against your will, and sent to the Capitol to die. Despite this comment, Dad gives a soft smile and pats her head.

"Hopefully, you won't need to be a warrior," Dad murmurs.

* * *

I didn't speak a word from the time they escorted me from the Justice Building and onto the train. The officials sat us down in a lounge car, with plenty of food spread out before us and the most entertainment and comfort at our hands. But I refused to participate in any of the shit the Capitol supplied for me. They had written my name on a tombstone, and I had no reason to be grateful for their courtesies.

Anthony reluctantly nibbled on some food, passing glances at my stony face. I'm sure he wanted to say something to me. Maybe reassure me, but he knew that any word he would conjure was ludicrous. Death was imminent. My brother and father would be fucked without me being the backbone of the household. All this shattered by the Capitol.

There door opens and a woman struts briskly into the room. She's a medium sized female, with short brown hair and vicious brown eyes. I recognize her at Johanna, the most recent victor from District 7. Based off of her stature, she didn't look like anything Panem would be worshipping, but that was how Johanna had gone along. She had acted weak during her games, but in reality she was a force to be reckoned with. She was a murderer and vicious.

"Hello, young ones," she greets. The word "young" seems to be a jab, and I wince slightly.

Glaring at Johanna, I expect her to say something. Offer condolences, or try to reassure us that, maybe, things will turn out okay.

"Well, don't look so grim. No one is going to like a bunch of pouting tributes," Johanna half-growls, glaring at Anthony and me. She pulls a chair back and plops down, gazing at us with intellectual brown eyes. Her eyebrows are narrowed; I can tell she's made these statements in the past. She's only been a mentor for a handful of years, but Johanna knew the system of the Hunger Games.

"You better make damn sure that you're presentable. Smile a lot, walk the the walk, talk the talk. You make sure that people are in love with you, and you'll land yourself sponsors," she pauses, biting her lower lip. "And in this game, you'll need as many as you can get."

Anthony musters the audacity to speak. "What do we do in the arena?"

"Fight for your life," Johanna responds quickly, without consideration.

It couldn't be any more obvious.

I glare at her, and she catches my look. She stares right back, emotionless and composed.

"Look, every game is different. The terrain is different; the tributes are different. I can't write you a walkthrough, and you expect to follow a set of guidelines to victory. That's the point of these games. It's unpredictable. It's hell on earth, and there's no possible way for you to be guaranteed victory."

Her words are heavy. They burden me. My eyes drop down to the table, where I stare listlessly. Why bother ask any more questions? I'm bound to die. There are Career tributes from Districts 1, 2, 3 and 4. They'll probably claim another win, bringing the glory back to their victory pampered districts while District 7 will sit in wait for another decade or two. Johanna will remain the first victor in many years, the first since Blight nearly twenty five years back.

Johanna recognizes the little good her words have done, but she's done her job. Honesty is the best policy, they say. Of course, the truth hurts and usually does more bad than good in this dire situation. Maybe letting us live on fraying threads of hope would've helped our ego and our chances. But, now, Johanna might as well stamp us for failure.

"Look..." she suddenly starts, before stopping. She pauses, sucking in a breath of air. "Now that you know the harsh truth, I still have the goal to prepare you for victory."

"What's the use..." I mutter.

Johanna glared for a moment. "Because I'd rather not be seeing two of you going home in a bodybag."

"One of us definitely will," I argue.

"You're just a queen of despair. Can you just chin up for a moment and pretend you want to live? Or do you want me to tell everyone you want to die, and let's see how well it pans out," Johanna snarls. She had slammed her hands down on the table, knuckles white and nails burying into the glossy table top.

Jaw clenched, I gaze straight at Johanna. We hold a fiery gaze, until Anthony clears his throat and Johanna flickers the other tribute a gaze.

Johanna finally announces after that episode, "I expect enthusiasm from both of you. Enthusiasm to work and become strong."

I know it's angled at me, but Anthony nods with agreement.

"Now, tell me your skills. Anything that can assist you out on the battlefield. If you don't want to share with your district partner, I'll honor privacy." Johanna looks from Anthony to me, nodding at us to speak up.

Anthony smiles softly, giving a weak shrug. "I'm okay with Indigo knowing...there's not a whole lot to me, anyway."

"Okay, kiddo, shoot," Johanna invites.

"I can wield an axe, like any kid from our district. And I've been working with my father at the lumberyard the last three years...but I'm not exceptional," Anthony reports with a softening voice. He seems embarrassed, as though he's supposed to cultivate inhuman powers that would destroy all competition. He's a normal kid, like most of us. Being chosen for the Hunger Games was not an intention behind his life.

Nodding softly, Johanna absorbs the information. Flicking an eyebrow, her eyes direct to me. There's a moment of irritation when she looks at me, but I can tell Johanna's fighting to keep things professional and avoid quarrel again.

"I..." I start before stumbling. What the hell was I supposed to say? I had no strength. I could cook and sew, like any District 7 girl. But nothing in the fields of strength and weapon ability. I was expected to stay home and tend to the family. Chucking axes was not my profession.

Blushing, I faltered and fell quiet. Anthony nudged his elbows into my forearm with encouragement, trying to prompt me to speak.

"Nothing, I have nothing," I finally concluded.

Johanna frowned. "Well, there has to be _something_."

I shook my head, bowing it.

"She's quick," Anthony finally spoke up.

My eyes widened, and I shot him a gaze. Surely, he couldn't anticipate that my speed was anything extraordinary. My fleet foot abilities would be dwarfed by someone from District 1 or 2, who had been training to sprint distances for the games. The little sprints we did at school were recreational and had no training behind them. They were innocent things.

"And she isn't as weak as she'd admit to be," he continued. "She used to follow her father to the lumber yards and help haul tree branches and trunks with the younger boys. You may not be brawny, Indigo, but you're tough."

His words seemed to calm Johanna, and she gave a repetitious nod.

A small smile cracked across her face. "That's better."

I pursed my lips. Although Anthony had helped size me up, I still didn't consider myself victor material. I'd be crushed in the arena, I was positive of that.

Secretly, I scolded myself for those thoughts. Johanna had commanded us to be enthusiastic and positive about the path ahead of us. Although it was impossible to avoid the death, at least we could fight to prevent it. And being negative and gloomy wasn't going to help the case.

"I want you to keep thinking about anything that you think could be a good commodity in the arena. You'd be surprised what skills can be useful," Johanna decides to conclude. "Until we get to the Capitol to begin training, this is the best I can do for you. Tomorrow, you'll be training and honing your abilities."

With that, Johanna rises and leaves the cabin. For a while, I sit at the table with a blank look. Anthony grabs a handful of fruit, shoveling it into his mouth before rising to leave. He's exhausted, he mutters, and wants to rest. I, on the other hand, don't move an inch.

My head is aching by now. A sip of icy water doesn't do much justice, and I sit there in my misery and tsunami of emotions raging within me. I fancied that I'd wake up from this horrible nightmare back at home in District 7, and it'd be the day of the Reaping all over. It would be a dream. A hellish dream.

But I know that is wishful thinking, and I'm in over my head here.

"Fuck..." I mutter, leaning forward to rest my throbbing head on the cool mahogany table top. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

In the midst of my quiet tantrum, the door to the cabin opens and some immerges. Raising my head, I blink through the hair that's escaped into my face. Johanna has returned after her short absence, and she staring right at me. My stomach churns, as I'm expecting her to tell me off and wish that I die first thing in the arena. I expect her to say I'm not worth her time, and that'd she rather invest her time with Anthony than me.

After all, we hadn't started off so well.

"Feeling okay?" She quizzed, inspecting my disheveled appearance.

I blinked, shaking my head. "I feel like hell."

"Typical," Johanna says with a shrug. She yanks a chair and sits back down at the table, folding her hands on the table. "Last year's girl puked half way through the first night. Poor thing."

I winced at the mention of last year's tribute. I remembered fourteen-year-old Lea, who had passed out when her name was announced at the Reaping. I remembered the girl who didn't make it fifteen minutes into the Hunger Games, before being brutally stabbed to death by a girl from District 10. For a fleeting second, I hated Johanna for daring to mention Lea.

Sensing she hadn't chosen the right words, Johanna paused and sighed. "Look, this situation royally sucks, I know. But I can't help you if you're giving off a 'I want to die' attitude. Unless you want to change it, I can easily just let you keep that attitude and die."

Looking up, I held Johanna's gaze. She was brutally honest, but she was also extending invitation of her knowledge to me. It wasn't for free. I'd have to want it.

Chewing on my lower lip, I shrugged. "I don't want to die..."

"Good," Johanna stated. "Can we show a little more drive to stay alive?"

I nodded mutely.

"There's something about you, Indigo," Johanna stated, cocking her head and giving me a scrutinizing gaze. "While the Career Districts may have strength and skills, they aren't much more than killing machines. Cunningness trumps mechanical actions, as long as you're good at it."

"Do you think I can win?" I questioned, voice wavering.

Johanna shrugged. "Maybe. It's up to you. How much do you _really_ want to survive?"


	3. Chapter 3: Partner

Hi guys. I'm sorry for the lack of update...and I apologize for this chapter. Honestly, I would love to jump into the Games, but there's all the pre-game shenanigans to go through to build a foundation. This chapter serves a purpose, but it's short. So bear with me, I'll be trying to roll in more chapters in the near feature. - Zanzibar

* * *

Chapter Three: Partner  
_I'll be dead before the day is gone_

Night falls, and I'm still awake. Attempts to sleep are futile, and I'm left tossing and turning in my bed for two hours before I'm unnerved. Unlike at home, I can't slip outside and escape into the security of my dark forest. No, I'm on a moving train towards hell. Instead, I'd just have to settle with relocating myself to the lounge cabin.

Slipping into a brown robe provided for me, I stealthily crept out of my room and made my way for the lounge cabin. My bare feet smoothly maneuvered across the cool metal floor in the darkness. For a moment, I felt at home, wrapped in the shadows. I closed my eyes, navigating to the door that let into the lounge cabin.

To my surprise, there was someone awake. The television was on, and the recap of the Reaping was commencing. A silhouette sat cross-legged on one of the couches, and glanced over their shoulder when I entered.

"Anthony?" I breathed.

He nodded.

Walking over, I leaned against the couch arm and gazed at the television set. There were two analyzers discussing the year's selected tributes, weighing in their opinions and lobbing debates.

"District 2 hasn't failed to produce top prospects. We can except the victors to derive from that district again," one of the men boasted. There was a clip flashing to the stage in District 2, where the two tributes stood in front of their peers, bustling with pride. Unlike many of the other districts, District 2 promoted and worshipped their tributes. Most of them were trained for life and volunteered.

The other analyzer nodded. "Once again, District 2 finds themselves with a pair of volunteers. Tributes Cato and Clove show a lot of promise."

"I can't see any other District rising to the challenge."

"There can be surprises, Don," the other man reasoned.

Don shrugged. "True, but those surprise better have a plethora of tricks up their sleeves to out battle this deadly duo."

The two analyzers paused for a moment, before Don picked up. "Let's take a quick recap of this year's selected tributes..."

The screen flashed to clips from the previous day. It included the bold volunteerism from District 2's Cato and Clove. I noticed that District 1 and the girl from District 4 were also forces to be reckoned with. The clip of Anthony and I on stage at District 7 came shortly. I glanced away, too embarassed by my wily gaze and pale face. District 10 produced a decent male tribute. Surprisingly, District 12 had a volunteer, a rare commodity in their district.

Don and the second analyzer returned to the screen, smiling. Their words became a jumble in my brain as I absorbed the information.

District 2 were monsters. Trained for life. They could wield any weapon and were trained to survive a myriad of elements. Survival was second nature to them. Nothing in the arena should surprise them.

"This is going to be rough," Anthony sleep-deprived voice states.

I snort. "Understatement of the day."

Anthony chuckles. "Right? I don't know what we'd do without Johanna here to mentor us...she's gritty and cunning."

"That still doesn't compensate for our skill. We better polish up some things..." I sigh, sliding down onto the couch beside Anthony. I rub my hands together nervously. "I mean, I can't fight worth a damn..."

"You'll pick up something," Anthony optimized. "I can teach you to throw. It's practically in your genes, you just have to discover it."

I smiled at my district partner. "Thanks."

There's a silence, except for the soft drone of the television, that lingers.

Anthony suddenly reaches out and grabs my hand. "I don't want to die..."

I am stunned by his action, and stare, dumbfounded, into his eyes. I shake my head. How can I tell him that one person will emerge victorious? How can I tell him the odds aren't in our favour? We might as well quit now, since District 1 or 2 or some shock sensation from District who-knows will win. Do I dare tell him that, in my heart, I don't expect to return home? And even if I did, wouldn't that mean Anthony would be dead in the end?

I lower my head, nodding softly in agreement. That's all I could bear to do. Even though we were allies right now, one day we might be faced as enemies. Only one could survive. That was the concrete rules of the Capitol's Hunger Games.

"We'll fight, Anthony," I finally say. "We will fight."

Because we have no better strategy. It's fight or die.


End file.
